


chased the sun and traced the stars

by enbyboiwonder



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Episode: s11e07 Bump and Grind, Falling In Love, First Kiss, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Greg Sanders, Other, POV Second Person, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 06:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18566230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enbyboiwonder/pseuds/enbyboiwonder
Summary: and all the while, my heart was aching / closer to my destination





	chased the sun and traced the stars

**Author's Note:**

> Title and lyrics from [Edge of the Earth](https://youtu.be/CgprqKSsgyk) by Midnight Cinema.  I imagine this taking place maybe a few weeks after 11.07, but the timeline's vague on purpose.
> 
> A thousand thank-yous go to the lovely FrozenMemories for the beta ♡

You don't know when it happened, but it has: the shift from loving Wendy to loving Greg.

You still love Wendy, of course—oh, you could never stop—but it hurts less now.  Aches less.  Your heart aches more, now, when you quietly watch Greg than when you look up to see Henry or a quasi-familiar face in the DNA lab.

It happened, maybe, when you started calling your little weekly get-togethers 'dates.'  They may have been Greg's idea, but you're the one who named them.  'Get-togethers' is too long and clunky, so: man-dates.  Greg starts, somehow, somewhere along the way, becoming more than just a friend to you, so, to yourself, at least: dates.

It happened, maybe, the first time Greg invited you out.  It's just to a bar they know, just the two of you, and they let you get drunk and talk about Wendy and whatever the fuck else you want, then they drive you home and make sure you get to bed all right.  They play with Mr K and make sure he has enough food and water while you get ready, and they stay at least until you fall asleep but are gone by the time you wake up, a glass of water and a couple aspirin waiting on the nightstand for you.  They don't say anything about the way you undoubtedly embarrassed yourself when next you bump into each other at work, just offer to take you out again same time next week, if you wanted.

There are few things you've ever wanted more.

It happened, maybe, when you started becoming friends—real friends, more than just good work friends.  Friends who joke together and rib each other and sometimes make plans together, and though you may still annoy them some—you tend to have that effect on people, even when you're not trying—their annoyance seems more fond, maybe, than anything.  And that smile that they'll give you, that genuine one that could set the stars alight in even the Vegas night sky, has a greater effect on you than you would quite care to admit.

It happened, maybe, back when you'd first started getting closer, and Greg had haltingly explained to you that they're not quite a guy, that they don't really know what, precisely, their gender is beyond 'nonbinary,' all serious tone and shy glances and nervous, sweeping gestures.  You want to reach out and still those waving hands between yours, but that isn't really something you do, so, their eyes still looking anywhere but at your face, you tell them that it's all right and you won't judge them, choosing your words carefully because, dammit, this is important, and you don't want to fuck this up like you seem to do everything else.  Those warm brown eyes finally meet yours, and the smile that they give you then is so bright with relief that it leaves you feeling fluttery for the rest of the day, touched to know that you're important enough to them for them to want to entrust this to you.

Or maybe it's only just happened right now—you've convinced them to watch Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes with you, and they've made themself at home: slouched comfortably on your couch; idly stroking Kobe's fur, the cat curled up, drowsing and content, in their lap; their arm pressed warm and solid against yours; and you thinking—not for the first time, you realize, but maybe the first time consciously—that it would be nice to be like this every day, just like this.  You watch them surreptitiously out of the corner of your eye, desperate to know that they haven't picked up on your realization.  It soon turns to watching them openly, admiring the soft curves and planes of their features, their dark lashes, each mole and freckle and perfect blemish, taking in everything, and oh, your chest aches with how much you want this, all of it.  Them, in any way they'll allow.

You only realize you're doing it, have been doing it for longer than is strictly appropriate between friends, when they dart a glance toward you, catch you staring, then turn to meet your gaze, their expression turning knowing.  You blink, startled, but don't look away, heart lodged in your throat.  Their lips quirk in amusement.  "What, you insisted I see this movie with you, and you're not even watching it?" they ask good-naturedly, and, on impulse, you lean in to kiss the smile off their lips.  It's the only answer you can give.

Hands work their way into your hair before you can even think to pull back, holding you there as Greg returns the kiss, deepens it, lips parting beneath yours as you wrap an arm around their waist and hold them closer.  Mr K gives an offended chirp which goes unheeded by both of you save for Greg curling into you for a better angle after the cat's leaped down from their lap.  You're maybe-definitely a little too old to be necking on the couch like this—you both are—but that doesn't stop you from lying back and pulling them down on top of you anyway, movie and all meaningless thoughts of 'when' forgotten.


End file.
